Echoes
by trufflemores
Summary: 1.09. The first fight with the Reverse Flash didn't go well.


Barry can't make himself get up, even though he knows he has to.

 _It is your destiny to lose to me, Flash._

 _Just as it was your mother's destiny to die that night_.

Barry thinks of his mother, screaming in terror, and his father, shouting at him to run, and feels a wave of shame so strong it hurts.

The Man in Yellow wasn't fighting him; he was toying with him.

Closing his eyes, Barry lets the world dissolve around him. It's easier than confronting the reality that he'll never be able to catch the man who murdered his mother.

When he comes to, it's raining. He can't feel it, but he can hear it, pattering on the roof of the stadium. It takes him a moment to open his eyes and stare at the underbelly of a dome, the flashing lights around him exacerbating the pounding headache behind his eyes.

Sitting up is agony, but he has to go home. He coughs, trying to keep it subdued, because he's certain he cracked at least two ribs and every exhale is pain, every inhale is agony. There's a crackle of thunder overhead as he sits, panting, one shaking hand reaching to lift his shirt and survey the damage.

A spectacular streak of purple and blue bruises cover his abdomen. Nothing seems alarming, though, certainly not urgent enough for Star Labs. So he lets his shirt slide down and with a deep breath he pushes himself to his feet.

It hurts, and his legs are trembling underneath him, but he still manages to limp to the edge of the field. He loses count of how jarring each impact is as he picks his way towards the main panels, quietly shutting off all of the lights. Then he breathes in slowly and picks his way down the dark, scarcely illuminated tunnel, pushing open a door and emerging into a light rain.

There's thunder crackling in the distance and it makes his stomach twist into knots because he's never been fond of storms but ever since he was struck by lightning they seem twice as potent.

 _You're not afraid of the dark,_ his mother tells him as he limps home. _You're afraid of being alone in the dark._

It's a long walk, and he feels the tears running down his face as surely as the tired beat of his heart. The world is very quiet, the distant traffic muted under the hush of rainfall, and Barry picks each step carefully, grunting softly with every hard impact.

At last, Barry pushes the front door to Joe and Iris' home, stepping inside the living room and shivering. The clock on the wall tells him it's a little after two in the morning. He's quiet, sliding off his shoes, careful not to wake them. When he tiptoes upstairs, he holds his breath, trying not to let the tears fall, because if he starts crying now he doesn't know how he'll stop.

He pushes open the door to his room except Iris is there, and he blinks stupidly at her, sprawled across his bed, as he bites his lip and thinks, _I should go._

Then she says softly, "Barry?"

It's dark, but he can still see her clearly sit up and reach for the lamp, and he wants to melt back into the shadows but he _can't,_ every little movement hurts, and when she turns on the light he's caught in its soft, orange-yellow glow.

Her expression immediately softens as she says, "Bar."

He sniffs, and he shouldn't, because now the tears are coming in earnest, and he's staring at the ceiling like it will help, but it won't, and then she's on her feet and hugging him gently.

He gasps as it puts the tiniest pressure on his ribs, shies away from her worried frown. "Please, please just let me go to bed," he whispers.

She nods and steps back, her eyes full of compassion, concern. "Of course," she says, and as he struggles to pull off his own shirt, limbs cold and stiff with pain, she asks, "What happened?"

"I got in a fight," he replies. It feels good not to lie to her: he doesn't think he could handle it, not with everything else crashing down around him. He has to preserve the lie, though, so he doesn't elaborate, instead struggling into a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants.

Dry clothing and quiet helps. He's so engrossed in the process that he doesn't notice it when Iris returns with a damp washcloth. "You're bleeding," she says, pointing to her own jaw, and he reaches up and feels a thin layer of dried blood.

He closes his eyes when she brings the cloth up to rub his cheek, erasing the marks if not the pain, and his eyes are tearing up again and he can't stop it.

"Hey," she says, so gentle, the heartbreak clear in her voice, and he's swallowing it down, blinking rapidly and breathing in halting stutters, trying to keep some semblance of control. She sets the washcloth in the laundry basket and takes his hand, pulling him to his own bed and sitting down across from him. "What's wrong?" she asks, reaching up to brush away a stray tear.

He shakes his head, feeling like he's suffocating slowly from the silence. _I can't tell you._

At last, he says, "I just . . . really miss my mom."

It isn't untrue, and saying it out loud makes his chest hurt for a different reason, because he misses her, misses the way she used to make him feel safe and loved and warm, like nothing bad could ever happen to him.

"Bar," Iris says, and she curls her arms up underneath his arms, hugging his shoulders gently, conscientiously avoiding most of his back. "I'm sorry. I wish I could bring her back."

 _Me, too,_ he thinks, burying his face in her shoulder, trying not to sob because it'll hurt and he just wants to stop hurting.

She strokes the back of his head and he can feel his breathing slow to match her, his arms slowly relaxing their grip around her back. When he finally lets her go, his cheeks are dry and he's able to say, "Thank you."

"Come on," she says, and she's pulling the covers back so he can lie down properly and they're still cozy-warm around the edges from her body heat, just right against his chilled skin.

She turns off the light and he can't help himself. "Why'd you wait up?" he asks softly.

It takes a moment for her to respond, and he almost think she's left before she finally speaks. "Because I can see when you're hurting," she replies, "and I didn't want you to have to be alone, too." She slides onto the bed beside him and they're not touching but he can still feel her body heat, the calming regularity of her breathing. "Go to sleep," she tells him.

 _I have to catch the Man in Yellow,_ he thinks, but his mind is tired and his body is tired and he needs to just let go for one night.

So he lets out a long breath and surrenders to it, his last waking thought, _Thank you, Iris._


End file.
